


Juice's Days Off

by ClaireScott



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: F/M, Kidnapping, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:39:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 18,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3354533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaireScott/pseuds/ClaireScott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You dreamed of a few days of silent alone time. Reading, watching TV, writing your book. But then you're apartment turns into a freaky kind of motel for a guy on the run. Romance happens. Sex happens. The usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The goddamn, shitty shit-elevator-son-of-bitch!

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language, I apologize for all the mistakes.

„I'm your charity case, so buy me somethin' to eat, I'll pay you at another time, take it to the end of the line.” You’re singing along, tapping the rhythm on the wheel.  
The sun’s shining bright, it’s early afternoon and you’ve got a two week holiday – starting right now. You’re driving home from the supermarket, buying enough food to survive a 14 day long siege. You will not leave your apartment for the next days. You will spend your time reading, writing, watching TV. Some quality alone time just for you.  
You flinch as you hear a kind of growling thunder behind you, drowning out Axl’s voice. You take a look in the rear view mirror – a big bike runs very fast right behind you. You sigh and roll your eyes. Thank god, you’re home. You turn signal and drive into the entrance of the underground garage of the apartment complex you live in. The biker is still right behind you and squashes his bike on your right through the small gateway, barely waiting for the barrier to go up.  
“Asshole”, you murmur to yourself.  
If this – clearly new and in a very hurry – neighbor scratches the varnish of your car, you will freak out. This wouldn't be the start in a holiday you dreamed of. The biker ducks his head under the barrier, hits the gas and drives like a raving lunatic around the corner.  
In your parking lot you take a deep breath. Holiday. Free time. Silence. You get out of the car, listening to the deep growl of many bikes on the street. What’s up with the bikers here? Hopefully your new neighbor doesn’t plan big parties with his friends.  
You open the trunk and carry two bags to the elevator. Back at your car you hear heavy steps coming nearer.  
“Hey!” A deep voice calls.  
Three men, obviously armed, walking down the gateway. Shit.  
“Sir?” You ask. Stay calm. Stay polite.  
“Did ya see a man on a bike? Black clothes? Did he drive in here?”  
You know this is fucking shit. Who’s the bad one of these guys? A “no” is the safest way out there. No shooting. Just a “sorry” and they’re gone.  
“No,” you say, “Haven’t seen one. I’m sorry.”  
He nods slowly and the guy on his left comes nearer, takes a look behind your car. The other one takes a look around, searching for a bike, but there is none. You wonder where he has hidden it. Between the SUVs of Mr. and Mrs. Huffman, you guess. You grab two more bags and carry them to the elevator, just as nothing has happened.  
“We know where he lives. Let’s wait there”, the tallest of the bikers says.  
The three guys turn around and walking back on the street, without even a “good bye” or a “thank you, ma’am”. You breathe in deeply. That was a close call.  
Hurry up, (Y/N), you think. Maybe they’re coming back. And your not-new-neighbor-but-biker-asshole-in-deep-trouble is still here. In this creepy, godforsaken underground garage.  
  
With the last two bags in your hands you’re standing at the elevator, seconds trickling away slowly.  
Come on! Goddamn, shitty shit-elevator-son-of-bitch!  
As the “ping” declares the onset of the elevator-too-late-son-of-a-bitch you feel him in your back. A big hand scoops over your mouth and you feel his warm breath at your ear, his other hand on your arm.  
“Shhh,” he soothes, “It’s okay. No fear. Go in.”  
He pushes you in the elevator, turning you around, pulling a gun out of his waistband.  
“Take the bags. Hurry up.”  
“Please,” you whisper, “Don’t...”  
“Stop talking. Take the bags. I won’t hurt you.”  
You do as you’re told, your legs shaking. You feel cold sweat everywhere on your body and a few tears on your cheek.  
The door of the elevator closes and he puts his gun away.  
“Won’t hurt you. I promise.” He states and gives you a small smile. “Which floor?”  
“Third,” you whisper and he pushes the button for the third floor.  
“What’s your name?”  
“(Y/N)”, you answer, “Do you need money? Here, take it. It’s all I have.”  
You start searching for your wallet, but he grabs your purse and shakes his head: “Gun? Pepper spray?”  
“No, no, nothing, I’m sorry. I’m just searching for my wallet.”  
“Don’t need your money. But...” He rubs his neck, thoughtfully, “Do you live on your own?”  
You can only nod, the horror leaves you speechless.  
“I need a place to stay. I think I found one.”  
“What?”  
“Just for a few days. We will get along great.”  
“No, no, please, I... I’ve got ...” You stutter, while tears streaming down your face.  
“What? Herpes? A clap?” He grins and pulls his gun out again as the elevator stops.  
He takes a careful look around, before he grabs two of your bags with one hand, the other one gives you a hint with the gun. “Outta here. Which number?”  
“33b, on the left,” you whisper, still full in shock.  
“Go ahead.”  
You walk, with still shaking legs, to your apartment, totally aware of this handsome guy with the gun in your back.  
“Go in, girl. What are you waiting for?”  
“The key is in my purse”, you whisper, too afraid to turn around.  
“Uh, sorry”, he answers and gives your purse back.  
You grab the keys and open the door, feeling pushed in.  
“Please,” you whisper again as the door slams shut.  
“Sorry,” he answers, “I have to hide here. I’ll make a few calls and maybe I’m outta here in the evening, but I can’t promise. Got a cell phone?”  
“Yes. In my purse.”  
He nods, grabs your purse again and takes your cell phone out. He slams it on the floor and steps with his heavy boot on it.  
“No! What are you doing? Oh, my god!”  
“Sorry. Again. But I have to make sure you won’t make a call to whomever. Sit down.” He gestures with his gun on your kitchen table and you take a seat, watching and hearing him destroying your phone and your internet connection.  
He picks the meager leavings of your cell phone from the floor and fumbles your SIM card out off the wreckage.  
“I’m Juice,” he says and you nod. “Live alone here?”  
You’re nodding again.  
“That’s very much food you bought for just one person,” he states, examining the bags from the supermarket.  
“I have a few days off and want to stay here, don’t go out and... yeah. If I had known that I’m going to die, I wouldn’t have bought so much food.”  
“You’re not gonna die. And now we’re two people. We will need this.”  
He winks and gives you a broad smile. God, he looks gorgeous.  
Stockholm, you think. Starts really early.  
“Listen, I’m in a shitty situation, but I’m one of the good guys, okay? No fear. I’m not going to hurt you, I’m not going to kill you. We’ll just stay here, maybe a few hours, maybe a few days. Would you mind giving me a guided tour through your apartment?”  
You give a shrug and stand up: “I’m faced with a Hobson’s choice, right?”  
He grins again and nods.  
“A bathroom without windows? Okay. That’s great. Go in,” he commands minutes later, “I have to make some calls.”  
You step in your little bathroom, the door closes and the key turns around. You’re trapped. It’s all silent; he’s gone in the kitchen to make his calls. You say a prayer that he will be gone in the evening, with your body still undamaged and breathing at the time he closes the apartment door behind him.


	2. Dinner time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juice and you get to know each other better. He's all gentleman and very, very slow you start to relax. Just a bit.

You take a seat on the toilet, staring at the floor, fantasizing about red blood flooding your bathroom. Holy mother of god, how did you get in this? And how will you survive? You’re not longer able to hold the tears back, you’re sobbing desperately, loud and unresisted.  
You grab a piece of toilet paper and blow your nose. Crying, staring, impatiently wiping your tears away. And start over. Blow your nose, crying, staring, impatiently wiping your tears away. Minute after minute after minute. You don’t look up as the door slowly opens. You will not face the barrel again. You can’t.  
“Hey,” he says soothingly, “No, no, don’t cry. I know this is a bunch of shit but we’ll make the best of it.”  
You shake your head, waving him out. You just can’t deal with him right now.  
“Okay. I’m waiting.”  
The door closes again, this time without being locked. Your sobbing goes on, for an eternity. As no tears are left you slowly get up, your hand trembling as you reach for the doorknob. You open, eyes down, carefully, aware of the danger you’re in. Everything is silent, a deceptive scent of peace. First thing you see are big black boots, standing vis-à-vis your bathroom door. He waits there, hands in his back, leaned against the wall.  
“Feeling better?” He asks and you nod.  
“Good. So, what were your plans for tonight? If we hadn’t met?”  
You shake your head. You can’t talk to him.  
“No plans?” He guesses and goes on as you don’t answer: “I’ve talked to my … brothers. I’ll stay here. They will solve the problem and I’ll be outta here in a heartbeat. I’m sorry.”  
You nod as a sign you’ve heard him and walk forward the kitchen, starting to put away your groceries. Juice takes a seat at your kitchen table, watching you closely.  
He’s somewhat relaxed, but his facial expression is earnest. The atmosphere is tense, the silence hardly to bear.  
You clear your throat: “My plans included cooking and watching TV, drinking a beer or two.”  
It’s embarrassing how small and insecure your voice sounds – but that’s normal you think.  
“Sounds good. What’s for dinner?”  
A smile is lightening up his face and he stands up, coming nearer, taking a look over the groceries laid out on your counter.  
“Lasagna, but not the classic recipe. With some carrots and zucchini in, if you don’t mind?”  
“Of course not. I’m your guest, I’ll eat everything. I’m no expert in kitchen things, I usually don’t do cooking and stuff, but ... uhm ... may I help?”  
“No. No, it’s okay. Please, take a seat. Wanna have a drink? A beer?”  
Maybe you can flee when he’s drunk and asleep.  
“I’ll help myself; I’m a big boy, but thank you.”  
You work in silence for a few minutes; you don’t know what to talk with a kidnapper. You watch him from the corner of your eye. You’re not into tattooed guys, normally, but this copy of a bad guy is hella cute. You see his laugh lines and you just can’t think of him as an ice cold killer. Or ... shit, you don’t know.  
“Tell me about you,” he demands, “Where do you come from?”  
You take a deep breath, remembering an article that told to build a bond to a kidnapper. That article told you have to try to get a person not a random face because it’s more difficult to kill a person you know. Talk to him. Tell him who you are. That’s good.  
And so you tell him everything he wants to know. Who your parents are, where do you come from, what your profession is, your ex-boyfriend, your hobby – you even tell him about your book. As you’re finished with the story of your life, the lasagna is already in the oven.  
“What about you?” You ask as you put two plates on the table.  
“I’m a Puerto Rican from Queens. I’m a biker. That’s all you need to know.”  
“Short story,” you state, giving him a small smile, while you take a big knife out of the drawer.  
“Uh, wow! What the hell? Put it down!”  
“It’s for the lasagna.”  
“Oh. Anyway: Put it down.”  
Juice stands up, one hand at his gun and you put the knife down, turning it around so he can grab it without getting hurt.  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to startle you,” you whisper, eyes down.  
Be small, be kind, and be polite. Don’t make him angry.  
He takes the knife, opens the window and throws it out.  
“We only need very small knifes in here,” he smiles and continues more earnest: “You don’t trust me, I don’t trust you. That’s the thing, I guess.”  
You nod, clear your throat and whisper: “Would you please cut the lasagna?”  
“Sure,” he answers and you open the drawer with your knives slowly. “Would you get us two bottles of beer?”  
“Yes, of course.” You whisper, backing up to the fridge. 

A few minutes later Juice eats the first bite of your lasagna and hums approvingly. “That’s good.”  
“Thanks,” you answer and taking a sip of the beer – thinking of the night it could be a good idea to get totally drunk.  
But ... no. No. Better to stay sober.  
The silence is a little bit awkward and so you work up the courage to ask: “Are you married or do you have a girlfriend? Is no one waiting for you right now?”  
“No one,” Juice confirms, “Why are you on your own?”  
“Never met the right one,” you give a shrug, drawing circles with your fork on your plate. “And I’ll get more and more ... uhm ... special with every year. That’s normal when you are alone, I guess.”  
“Right. Same here.”  
He gives you a broad smile and the following silence isn’t awkward anymore.  
After finishing his meal he fumbles a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket. “Do you mind?”  
“No, it’s okay. There’s an ashtray in the cupboard. May I bring it?”  
“I’ll get it. Keep your seat.”  
You nod and Juice inspects your kitchen, searching for the ashtray and possible weapons, you guess.  
He smokes his cigarette standing beside the open window, blowing the smoke outside as well as it gets. After he’s finished you clear your throat: “May I go to the bathroom, please?”  
“Of course. You can go wherever you want, (Y/N). The door is closed and I don’t think you wanna jump out a window, right?”  
“No, I won’t jump.”  
You make your way to the bathroom, Juice on your feet.  
“Why are you following me?”  
“I don’t trust you. Maybe you’ve got a gun here, fishing it out of the closet on your way to the toilet. I don’t want to be shot in the back, ya know?”  
“I don’t have a gun. And no other weapons, too.”  
“I would say exact the same thing if I were you. And in the minute the asshole sleeps I would reach for the bazooka I store under my bed.”  
You can’t help yourself, you have to laugh, just a bit.  
“See? We’ll get along great. Ladies first,” he chuckles as you reach the bathroom door.

About three minutes later you open the door and being gently pushed back in.  
“I don’t trust you. You have to wait here,” he explains, pointing at the clothes basket.  
“Beg you pardon?” You ask, totally appalled.  
“I have to pee, too. Sorry.”  
He places you in front of the clothes basket before he turns around and opens his belt. He looks over his shoulder while he pees, standing in front of the toilet. You blush, that’s way more intimate you ever wanted. You lower your gaze, kneading your fingers, while he adjusts his package and washes his hands.  
“So,” he says, opening the bathroom door. “What’s on TV tonight?”  
“Dancing with the stars,” you answer, heading to the living room.  
“What the hell is Dancing with the stars?”  
“You’ll see, I like it, it’s fun. If you don’t mind watching this. You can also have a look on my DVDs.”  
“No,” Juice sighs, “I’m your guest. Your choice.”  
You give him a small smile over your shoulder. Could be a quite perfect night - if he stayed here by choice.


	3. Kinda deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First night, first morning. You get along well.

He sleeps. Finally. His arms are crossed over his chest, he’s sleeping like a baby. No snoring. You take a deep breath, mute the TV and start thinking about what to do next. A while ago he put his gun out of his waistband. It’s on the little side table right now, big and scary and black and deadly. The keys to your apartment door are in his jeans pocket. No chance for you to get them. No chance to get out. What now? Take the gun? And then? You never had a gun in your hands; you have no idea how to load, to shoot. He will know this, just from the way you would hold this fucking thing. He will give you a pitiful smile and take the gun out of your shaking hands. And maybe your little truce will be over then. You see yourself tied up on the bathroom floor or in your closet. No. You list the pros and cons while watching him closely, minute after minute. Maybe you should try to get the keys. If you are very careful and slow he won’t wake up. Maybe. There a too much “maybes” in all of your plans. Just in the moment you decide to do nothing, to stay as safe as you can in this shitty situation he wakes up with a jolt.  
He looks to the side table and breathes deeply as he sees his gun is still there. He grabs it, checking if it’s still load.  
“I fell asleep, huh?”  
“Yes. Just for a few minutes.”  
“And you’re still here. Plus: Obviously you’ve got no bazooka in your living room, right?”  
You chuckle and shake your head, but you need only the blink of an eye to get serious again.  
“Where should I go? I’m trapped here, right?” You ask, turning the TV off. “It’s after midnight; I’ll go to bed.”

About 20 minutes later you step out of the bathroom, seeing your guardian right in front of the door. You’ve changed in a pajama, the ugliest terry cloth thing you own.  
He smiles down at you, he knows exactly why you wear this.  
“Chic,” he comments and you give him a derisive snort.  
“There’s a new toothbrush on the shelf. Help yourself.”  
“Thanks.”  
“Do you want a pillow or an extra blanket?” You ask, gesturing to the living room.  
“I’ll sleep in your bed. Not on the couch.”  
“Beg your pardon?”  
“I have to prevent you of doing something stupid, ya know?”  
“I won’t do something stupid, I swear. I could have done it earlier and I didn’t, right?”  
“Right.” He nods, standing already half in the bathroom. “However, that doesn’t make any difference ...”  
“Will you do something ... stupid?” You ask, with your voice once more wobbly and weak.  
“No, I won’t. Never fear.”  
It feels awkward waiting for him, waiting for what will happen. Your gut twisted the moment he comes in your bedroom, clothed only in his boxers and his T-shirt. He locks the door and turns around, smiling.  
“My gun and the key are somewhere in your apartment. So we’re both safe. I can’t shoot you, you can’t flee or shoot me.”  
He puts the key to the bedroom door under the mattress and goes on: “If you have to go to the bathroom you’ll have to wake me.”  
He switches the light off and you feel the mattress sink in as he lies down.  
“You good?” He asks, his voice soft and low.  
“I am. Good night.”  
“G’night.”

It lasts long but finally Morpheus wins. You fall asleep, exhausted, and desperate for oblivion. You wake in the late forenoon to the smell of coffee and open your eyes, taking a look over your shoulder. He’s not there, the bedroom door is ajar. You sigh – he didn’t touch you.  
Slowly you get up and stop in the moment you hear him talking.  
“It’s me, Juice. Hi. Did Tig and Happy …?”  
You hear him coming nearer, the door closes – he thinks you’re still asleep and he doesn’t want to disturb you. He’s really a nice guy, if there weren’t this gun and the kidnapping – you could like him. You open the door, making your way to the bathroom, listening to what he says on the phone. The guy he talks to is named Chibs. Chibs wasn’t able to solve this whatever-problem-it-is so far, they’re working on it. You flit in the bathroom as his voice gets louder, as he starts talking about you.  
“I can’t stay here forever, so hurry up, okay? This whole bunch of shit is not my fault. She’s absolutely petrified and I don’t wanna plague her for longer than absolutely needed.”  
That sounds good. Sounds like you were actually kind of safe. But ...  
“No. I’m no fucking rapist asshole. Ya should know this, Chibs.”  
You take a deep breath. That’s good to hear. Very good. You feel you’re relaxing a bit. He won’t hurt you, won’t rape you, and won’t shoot you. So he’s just an unwelcomed guest. A few days and he will be gone, the nightmare will be over.  
While stepping into the shower you hear his steps come nearer.  
“Morning,” he greets through the closed door, “Wanna have some coffee?”  
“Good Morning. I’ll take a shower first, if you don’t mind?“  
“No. I took a shower too, I’m up for at least three hours.”  
“Didn’t you sleep well?”  
“I slept very well. But I’ve some work to do. Hurry up, coffee’s waiting. ”  
You can’t hold your tears back as the tautness falls off slowly. The warm, relaxing water, the knowledge that he’s not planning to hurt you – it’s pure relief you’re feeling. 

You manage a smile as you enter the kitchen and he smiles back, bright, broad, and inviting.  
“I parked my bike in front of your car and made a few calls. They’re working the problem.”  
You nod. Did he leave you alone in your apartment? He also took a shower. Did he lock the bedroom door? Probably. He doesn’t trust you.  
“In the afternoon a friend will come over, bringing me some clothes.”  
“Okay.” You take a sip of the coffee, your eyes closed.  
“What are your plans for today?”  
You give a shrug, chuckling.  
“Whatever plans I might have – I have to stay here with you, right?”  
“Yeah. But you’ve said you don’t want to leave your apartment for the next few days. So, writing your book?”  
“Maybe. But I don’t think I’m able to concentrate when there’s a man with a weapon in my apartment, watching me the whole day.”  
“You’re interesting, sorry. But I can watch TV, if you don’t feel disturbed. You’re writing, I’m watching some stupid game show or Bonanza or The Fall Guy or whatever they’ll air.“  
“I think that would be okay.”  
“Why are you writing love stories?”  
“People who aren’t loved or love in person talk much about love, right?” You ask, shrugging. “People who are married don’t talk about it. They live love.“  
“Yeah, maybe. But there must be also authors of love stories, who are married. That’s a statistical thing.”  
“Of course. But maybe they are all unhappy in their marriage and start dreaming of love again.”  
Juice laughs and shakes his head: “That’s a very dark sight on the life of other people.”  
“I live on the dark side. You don’t see anything standing in the dark and looking in the brightness of the sun. It’s better to look in the dark if you’re already there.”  
“Uh”, Juice makes a face, “So your stories are kind of dark, too?”  
“Yes. But they get brighter, slowly. In the end the darkness is gone. But it’s a slow process.”  
“That’s kinda deep, I guess.”  
“Kinda stupid, nothing else. No one ever had read my books. I write just for my own pleasure.”  
“Do you plan to publish your books?”  
“No. I would be embarrassed to death.” You give him a small apologizing smile.  
“Bummer.”  
“Thanks for asking, Juice.“  
He smiles and shakes his head. As you start your notebook you feel somehow pleased and happy.  
“Uh, it’s the A-Team”, Juice calls and laughs.  
You can’t help, you have to laugh too.


	4. To play act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You come closer. And it's enjoyable.

You can barely concentrate. Every few seconds you have to take a look to the friendliest kidnapper ever, sitting on your couch, watching TV. He’s totally in, laughs at funny scenes, he seems so relaxed, so happy, you’re almost envious. You wish you could be casual, so easy, you wish you had his ability to make the best out of everything. You’re way too severe, too tense.  
Bullshit, you think, I’m kidnapped. How could I be relaxed and happy?  
But deep in you, you know you would feel the same if he was a friend coming by, not a kidnapper.  
“You good?”  
Juice’s looking over to you, frowning. Suddenly you feel the tears on your cheeks, and you blush, totally embarrassed. You’ve sobbed like a three year old, who’d lost his lollipop.  
“Yes, thank you,” you mumble, looking on your notebook.  
“What’s the matter?”  
“Nothing, it’s okay, really.”  
“No, it’s not. Tell me. I swear I’m as silent as the grave.” He’s patting on the couch: “Come here. Sit down.”  
Juice mutes the TV, giving you a summoning look.  
With shaking legs you get up, wobble to him and take a seat at his side.  
“So,” he states earnest, “What’s the fucking matter?”  
You give a shrug: “It’s bullshit, nothing else.”  
“Yeah, maybe. But when it’s bullshit, you can tell me. I’m an expert in bullshit, in every creepy bullshit you can think of.“  
“I’m lonely. I’m sad. I wish I could sit here and have a few laughs, feeling relaxed and happy. I don’t go out because all the happy couples out there depressing me. I’m a freaky old maid. I wish I had a life, you know? That’s why I write. To build up a different reality, just for me. A little world I can flee to. Where I’m happy, where a man is sitting on my couch, relaxed, feeling comfortable being with me.” Your voice’s getting lower and lower, confessing this.  
“I see,” he answers, putting his arm around your shoulder, pulling you nearer. “I’m totally relaxed and comfortable being with you. Don’t be so stiffened, relax a bit, (Y/N).“  
He parks his feet on your coffee table, his fingers starting to massage your neck.  
“Relax, breathe, and concentrate on the TV. Lean your temple against my shoulder. Or your head on my chest. Just as you want, as you feel comfortable with.”  
You do as your told, feeling awkward and embarrassed. How could you've told him what’s in your mind? How could you allow yourself being so close to him?  
“See?” He whispers, “That’s not as bad as you thought, right? Relax, sugar. We go all warm and cuddly.”  
“I don’t want to disturb you. Or bother you,” you say, trying to withdraw a bit.  
“You don’t. Stay here. Breathe.“ He pumps up the volume of the TV again, “You’re good in imaginations, right? Just imagine we’re one of your twosomes in your books. Sitting on the couch on a Saturday afternoon, watching TV, cuddling. Imagine you’re happy with me. No disputes, no sorrows.”  
“No weapons. No restraint.“  
“Right. Close your eyes and think of it.”  
“Do you wish this scenario for yourself?”  
“Yeah. Very often. Maybe I should start reading romance novels.“  
You smile a little smile and close your eyes, drink his smell, listening to the words flooding your living room. Juice’s hand is still massaging your neck and very slow you feel a kind of relaxation. After about 15 minutes you manage to open your eyes, watching TV with him. The next time he laughs you’re able to laugh with him.  
“That’s nice. I like that,” he murmurs and his hand starts caressing your back. “Imagination works?”  
“Yeah,” you sigh, “Just one thing is missing.”  
“What?”  
“What’s your name? Juice is not the name your mother gave you, right?”  
“No. The name of your ... uh ... boyfriend ... lover ... husband ... whatever ... is Juan Carlos.”  
“Oh, Puerto Rican from Queens, right?”  
He chuckles: “Absolutely right. Everyone calls me Juice. Everyone except my mother and maybe my wife?“  
“No. I’ll go with Juice.”  
“Perfect.”  
The next hour you’re hold and caressed and cuddled by your kidnapper, you’re both able to laugh and relax. Never felt anything in the last five years as good as this Saturday afternoon. As the doorbell rings you stiffen.  
“Relax, sugar, it’s my brother,” he winks and frees himself of your embracing. “Wanna make us some coffee, babe?”  
“Yes”, you nod, not knowing if you’re still playing your fantasies or if this is now reality.  
“It’s not my brother actually, it’s his beautiful wife.” Juice calls seconds later from the door of your apartment.  
You get three cups out of the cupboard, listening to the bubbling of your coffee maker and the whispered words coming out of the hallway.  
“(Y/N), this is Lyla. Lyla – (Y/N).”  
“Hi” you greet and gulp as you have a look on the beautiful woman standing in your kitchen door.  
“Wanna drink a cup of coffee with us?”  
“No”, she says, “Thank you. I’m in a hurry. The kids are waiting in the car. I promised to give them a lift to the skate park.”  
Juice nods and hugs Lyla: “Thanks for dropping by. And thanks for the clothes. Who spent them by the way?”  
“Happy and Jax. Opie’s clothes won’t fit, I guess. The boxers and socks are brand-new, a present from Tara and me. We thought you don’t wanna wear old socks and boxers of Jax or Happy.”  
She smiles and Juice smiles back. You feel a little bit jealous.  
“You’re priceless.”  
“So, and you two ... get on with each other?” She asks and you nod, feeling Juice’s gaze on you.  
“He’s a sweetheart, I swear. Don’t be afraid. He'll be outta here very soon and you won’t see him again.“  
She looks back and forth from Juice to you and adds: “Unless you want.”  
You feel you’re blushing and turn around hastily to grab the coffee pot.  
Only seconds later you hear Lylas good bye and the apartment door closing. The key turns around. He still doesn’t trust you.  
You feel him coming nearer, while you’re still staring at the coffee pot.  
“We good?” He asks at your ear and you shiver.  
Get a grip, you rant at yourself. That’s disgusting!  
“We are,” you answer, pouring coffee in two cups.  
His breath feels warm and exciting on your neck; he stands close behind you, just breathing, deep and slow. You fight the urge to lean back in his warm embrace, to live your fantasies with him.  
“I’m thinking of how it would feel kissing you,” you whisper, closing your eyes.  
“Just thought of the same thing,” he answers and you feel his hands on your hips. “I’m a very odd husband – never kissed my wife so far.”  
“Maybe we should go back to the couch,” you say, way more louder then you had intended.  
His hands disappear and he steps back. “Yeah.”  
Back on the couch the charm is gone and you feel as distant and lonely as before. He gives you a thoughtful look and sighs: “Back in your shell?”  
“Yes, I am.”  
“I liked it. Really. Enjoyed it.“  
“Me too. Way too much.“  
“No regrets, okay? There’s no one here you have to give account of. If you’ve enjoyed it, we’ll do it again when you are in the mood.”  
“Thank you. You’re real sweetheart, Lyla’s right.”  
The smile he gives you is way too much for your poor heart.


	5. Kind of deep conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next dinner, the next conversation.

Juice seemed to be very bored, playing with his fork, waiting for you to serve the dinner. He needs to be entertained, he’s got ants in his pants, you guess. He’s a big child with a big weapon.  
“Lyla is your sister-in-law?” You ask, bringing a bowl with mashed potatoes.  
“Kind of,” he answers, “uh, looks delicious.”  
“Thanks,” you smile, heading back to the stove to get the steak and the peas.  
You place the steak on Juice’s dish and help yourself to some mashed potatoes and peas.  
“Oh,” he says, “I see. Bought just one steak, right?”  
“Right. Eat, come on. It’s getting cold. I hope you like it. Enjoy your meal.“  
“Can’t be serious, huh? Fifty-fifty?” Juice asks with a smile.  
“No, it’s ...” You start but Juice is already cutting the steak in two halves. “Thanks,” you mumble as he gives you your portion.  
You eat a few minutes in silence, smiling a bit as Juice helps himself to more mashed potatoes and peas.  
“So, she’s a working mom, I guess?”  
Juice nearly chokes and nods. He clears his throat before answering: “Yeah, kind of.”  
“There are many kind-of’s referring to Lyla.”  
He chuckles and nods once more: “That’s true.”  
“How many kind-of-nephews and kind-of-nieces do you have, Juice?”  
“One nephew, two nieces. Lyla has one daughter, Opie’s got one son and one daughter.”  
“Oh,” you answer, “I see. What’s her profession?”  
To your surprise you see Juice’s blushing a bit.  
“Uhm ... she’s a ... an... an ... , oh my fucking god, she’s an adult performer.” His voice is getting lower from word to word, the last two words are just a whisper.  
“Pardon?”  
“She’s an adult performer. She’s in porn movies, you know?“  
“Oh, my god,” you whisper, “You’re kidding, right?”  
“No. One day she met Opie and they fell in love. She’s doing girls scenes only since she’s been Opie’s old lady.”  
“Girls scenes? Old lady?”  
“Old lady – his life partner, so to say. And she’s doing lesbian porn, because Opie doesn’t want her to be with other men.”  
“Yeah, that’s comprehensible,” you answer, feeling a love story forming in your mind. “Somehow.”  
Juice’s laughing: “I see what’s going on in your beautiful little head. You’re writing a story. A love story where a porn star meets a normal guy and he saves her.”  
You’re blushing – caught.  
“Do you watch her movies?” You ask breathless, eyes wide open.  
Now it’s Juice, who blushes a bit – again. “I ... uh..., I tried, but ... it’s very strange to know her as good as I do and to see her private parts, to see her doing ... stuff. So, honest answer: No. I don’t watch her movies.”  
“But other ones,” you smile and raise your right hand, “Uh-uh, don’t answer. I don’t wanna know.”  
His smile opens your heart immediately. Goddamn Stockholm syndrome – you nearly forget who he is and what he’s doing in your apartment.  
“We’ll get along great, as I said. I feel like I would live here forever. I guess you have to keep me, I won’t go by choice.”  
You chuckle and get up to clean the table, place the dishes in the dishwasher. Juice’s helping you like he would live here forever. 

“Have you been able to write a bit today?” He asks as you both take a seat on your couch.  
“Yes. Thank you for this.”  
“For what?”  
“For being kind and silent.”  
“I’m your guest. I may have some trouble but I’m not an asshole.”  
“You are no guest, Juice, no. You can say this a thousand times and it’s still a lie. You are a kidnapper. The friendliest I’ve ever heard of, but still a kidnapper.”  
“I’m a refugee,” he corrects you, smiling, “A lonely, hunted refugee. And you’re my shelter.“  
“That sounds romantic. I guess my refugee wanna go all warm and cuddly again?”  
“If you don’t mind, yeah. I’m cool with some cuddling, ya know?”  
“What else are you cool with, Juan Carlos?”  
“A whole bunch of things. I’m deeply relaxed.”  
“Would you be cool with a porn star as your partner?”  
“Not that deep, (Y/N). Why? Is there anything you have to tell me?”  
You give him a shove and laugh.  
“No. I’m just thinking over the concept.”  
“The concept?”  
“Mhm. I’m a real true blue person. I can barely imagine kissing another guy when I’m in a relationship. And Lyla makes love to ... to others and Opie has to be cool with it.”  
“She doesn’t make love, (Y/N). It’s fucking. Pure fucking, they not even try to act love. Opie isn’t cool with it. He hates Lyla’s profession from the heart.”  
“That’s not better, Juice. It’s the same.”  
“Pure fucking and making love are not the same thing,” Juice states, earnestness in his voice. “It’s not even the same league.”  
“What’s the difference?” You ask, grabbing a pillow and pressing it to your belly.  
He laughs: “First: You know the difference. Second: I could show you, but explaining - no. I’m not as good with words as you are.”  
“You don’t know if I’m good with words. I could be a horrible author.”  
“And I could be a horrible lover. It’s purely a matter of taste.”  
“A matter of taste?”  
“Yeah. If you aren’t compatible with your partner sex will be awful, terrible, whatever.”  
You nod: “We always think the other part is a lousy lover, but maybe you are the problem. Maybe I’m a lousy lover, not my partner.”  
“No one who cares at least a bit is a lousy lover. It’s a question of compatibility. You can’t fix a scooter exhaust on a Harley. Or write a brain-eating zombie in a love story.”  
“Worth a try,” you smile, watching him rub his scalp.  
“Yeah, you can try, but the result will be awkward. Trust me. Did you ever see yourself as a lousy lover?”  
“Very often. I’m feeling inadequate. And I can’t believe going to confession right here.“ You sigh, pressing your hand over your mouth.  
Juice laughs and shakes his head: “I’m silent as the grave, remember?”  
His grin is getting brighter and you feel your blushing. The silence lasts only half a minute then he starts talking again.  
“You’re a nice person, you look good – you don’t have to feel inadequate. Act as you feel, don’t be shy, enjoy yourself, and enjoy your partner. That’s it, I guess.”  
“Nice? Nice is the little sister of shit.“  
He laughs again: “You’re priceless. Did I mention this before?”  
“No. What about watching TV?”  
“I’m your ... uhm ... refugee. Your choice.”  
You give him a wink, mumble “Well saved, Juan Carlos” and turn the TV on.


	6. Don Juan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juice reads your newest piece of writing. Oh. my. god. Bad idea, really.

This night you sleep very well and as you open your eyes you see Juice, watching you. You clear your throat and mumble a “G’morning”.  
“It’s Sunday, go back to sleep,” he whispers and gives you a sun-bright smile.  
Obediently closing your eyes you hear him breathe deeply. You enjoy the somehow floating condition between awakening and sleeping, drifting away in your fantasies, your dreams. Your dreams suddenly include a tattooed guy with a warm smile, a strong hand holding yours. You feel safe and secure, warm and happy. You’ve never felt like this. There’s a man at your side, a real man, not a grumbling, weak and forever displeased counter strike player who act like a five year old as a rule, who never loved you for being you, never fucked you, never made love to you. Juice, you inner voice tells you, praised your cooking, he enjoyed and appreciated the meals you cooked. Christian never did this. He was a real asshole, a lousy lover, a human wreck. He had no gun, no trouble with bikers and he surely never kidnapped a woman – but if you have to choose who’s the bigger dork you would choose Christian. Without a doubt. Juice's manners are way better than Christian’s ever were. 

In the moment you leave the land of dreams and open your eyes again, ready to start in the day, you realize Juice’s hand laying over yours. His eyes are closed but you can see he isn’t asleep. You flinch as his thumb is caressing the back of your hand. Very soft, very slow and heartbreaking tender. His eyes open and his hand is gone.  
“Sorry,” he whispers, “I’m ... so sorry.”  
You shake your head. No need to be sorry. But you can’t say a word. You’re deeply afraid of the bond you feel, a bond, getting stronger with each hour, with each conversation. You’re not longer afraid of him. You’re afraid of your feelings for him. As you get up it looks like you ran away from him – what you would do, if you could. But you’re still trapped in your apartment. 

You flee in the bathroom, in the shower, where he can’t see and hear your tears. You are so desperate for love, for a man that you consider your kidnapper as the fucking love of your life. That’s so miserable, so disgusting, so Stockholm syndrome you find no words for how wrong that is. Juice is waiting in the hallway, looking at you with puppy eyes.  
“Again, I’m sorry.”  
“It’s okay, Juice. Don’t talk about it.“  
“Why did you cry?”  
“I didn’t cry.”  
“Sure?” He asks with a small smile on his lips.  
“Absolutely sure.”  
“You’re a terrible liar, (Y/N).”  
You decide not to answer this; you hold your head up high, asking: “Do you want a soft-boiled egg for breakfast?”  
“Soft-boiled eggs on a Sunday morning? Sounds too good to be true. I would love to have one. Thank you.”  
Manners, you think, good manners.  
You prepare a real luxurious Sunday breakfast table, leaving Juice nearly speechless when he finally comes into the kitchen.  
“Wow. That’s awesome. Thank you.”  
“Please,” you say, making an inviting gesture to the table, “Take a seat. Enjoy.”  
“Would you mind if I’ll come every Sunday from now on?”  
“I don’t know. Depends on how your visit will end.”  
“It’ll end soon, I promise. And good, of course. I know you don’t wanna see me again.”

You both eat slowly, sharing the newspaper like an old couple and talking about random stuff. You have a few laughs about a pointed column and an article about a 90 year old man who went on the rampage in a local supermarket.  
“I wish I had been there,” Juice chuckles. “I never had a tomato fight, sounds like lots of fun.”  
“You can do it for yourself when your 90.”  
“I could. Will you join me?”  
You laugh and shake your head: „No. I’m more into cake fights.”  
“That’s cool. I’m dreaming about doing a cake fight on my sons fifth birthday.”  
“You have a son?”  
“No. Not yet. But I hope one day I’ll be a dad. And I would be the greatest dad of all time.”  
“Of course you would”, you smile, “Everyone who cares at least a bit is good at parenting.”  
“I’m very caring.”  
“I know.“  
He smiles and gets up, helping you to clean the table. Just as an old couple. Holding hands, sharing the newspaper, cleaning the kitchen.  
You know him for less than 48 hours, goddamn it, you rant to yourself. Get a grip with your fucking hormones, your desire for love and your hunger for a real man. 

After breakfast he makes a few calls from the bedroom while you start writing a new book. It must be written, it’s a necessity. You blush as you finished the chapter. It’s all you felt in the morning, in bed with Juice. All your dreams, every move he made in your fantasy. Every smugly smile, every moan. Your finger hovers over the backspace key as Juice steps into the living room, opening the window to smoke a cigarette.  
“What are you doing?” He asks, inhaling the first drag deeply, pointing on your still hovering finger.  
“It’s bad. I want to delete it.”  
“Bad? I don’t think so. May I read? I have no idea of literature, but ... sometimes a different view is helpful.”  
“No!” You nearly scream, “I mean, no, no. For heaven’s sake, this is not for your eyes.“  
You hit the backspace button and close the program without saving, breathing in deeply as four sites of shitty writing are gone in the nirvana. Juice just grins, smoking unhurriedly while you’re staring on a new, blank, white site on your notebook screen. As he finished his cigarette, he closes the window and comes over, smelling like smoke and leather and a little bit like – your nose is really irritated – your own “Black Diamond” shower gel.  
He turns the notebook around, tilting his head, his fingers fly over the keyboard and you see your chapter back on the screen.  
“I’m a hacker. There’s nothing you can hide, honey”, he grins, takes a seat and starts reading.  
You see his eyes narrowing, his nose crinkles and he smiles absent-mindedly.  
“Why don’t they have names?” He asks as he’s read the first site.  
“I’m not sure about the names yet. It’s a ... a dream. You don’t need names in your dreams. You instinctively know who’s in your dreams, don’t you?”  
“Yeah, I guess. Never thought this much about my dreams.“  
He starts reading again, his breathing gets deeper, he bites his lip, starts kneading his hands. You smile – he likes it, you can see it on the way he reads.  
“Wow,” he states after finishing. “This is incredibly hot. Wow. It’s like porn, but ... dunno ... a high class porn, very ... uhm ... respectful and lovely. Why do you fucking delete this?”  
“Because it’s porn.”  
“It’s great. I’ve got a boner, (Y/N). Never had one just because of reading a text. Until now.”  
You blush and shake your head.  
“Too much information, right?” Juice grins and you wish you could be as free and self-confident as he is.  
“Too much information. But thank you. It works, I guess. But it’s for women, you know? Men don’t read this kind of books. They watch porn.“  
“They just don’t know what they miss. I would buy it and recommend it to everyone I know.”  
“Thanks, Juice. But ... It’s just here,“ you point on your notebook, „and here,“ you continue, pointing on your head.  
“I really like what’s in your head. Don’t delete it again. For me, okay? You could give me a copy as a birthday present.“  
“I have never heard of a hostage making her kidnapper a birthday present, Juice.”  
“Not for your kidnapper. Forget this kidnapping shit. Okay? It’s for me, Juice. Just for Juice.“  
You nod and type „For Juice“ in the head of the chapter.  
“Thank you. Very much. So, what’s his name? Did you have one in mind?“  
You nod, but you don’t answer.  
“Come on, tell me. I wanna now.”  
“Maybe his name is Juan.” You voice is barely a whisper.  
“Juan? Like in Juan Carlos?” He seems to be really astonished – and glad.  
“Or in Don Juan.”  
He smiles: „Yeah. Of course. Like in Don Juan.“


	7. Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally they found you. And that's fucking bad.

A few hours later you open the little locker where you store your cleaning powder and gulp as you see Juice’s gun. A clever selected place, really. Easy accessible, in the middle of the hallway. You stare at the weapon, an eternity, feeling the fear coming back, irrational and still so comprehensible. You raise your hand, slowly, as the gun could bite you if you move too fast.  
“Touch it and we get into trouble,” Juice whispers right behind you.  
You didn’t even hear him coming.  
“I just wanted ...”  
“I don’t care. Step back, make room for me.“  
“I’m sorry, Juice. I didn’t search for ... for your property ... I’m sorry,” You mumble, eyes down, stepping aside.  
The sound of heavy boots coming from the corridor and Juice is squinting his eyes, listening closely. The doorbell rings, long, loud, disturbing.  
“Charming Police Department. Open the door,” a harsh voice calls from the door.  
Before you’re even able to blink your back is pressed against his chest, his left hand over your mouth, the right one reaching for the gun.  
“No sound,” he whispers at your ear and you nod a bit.  
“Ma’am! Open the door!“  
Juice directs you to the next window, taking a careful look outside on the street.  
“No police cars. But five bikes,” he whispers while the beating at your apartment door continues.  
“Ma’am! Open! The! Door!“ The man outside yells. „Charming Police Department!“  
You flinch with every beat and feel your tears meeting Juice’s hand.  
“It’s okay. I’m here. Don’t cry. We must be very, very silent, got it?“ His voice is just a breath and you press yourself against him, you wanna crawl into him, wanna be invisible.  
From one second to the other it’s silent and you hear the voice of your neighbor, Mrs. Benson, a tiny, old lady in her 80s.  
“What’s the problem, sir?” She asks and you hear her cane knocking impatiently on the floor.  
“Charming Police Department. Do you know where Mrs. (Y/L/N) is?“  
“Police? You don’t look like police officers,“ Mrs. Benson answers, „May I see your ID first?“  
Juice breathes deeply, turning you around. “Do. Not. Scream.”  
He presses your head against his shoulder, holding you close.  
“Oh, my god! Jeff!”, Mrs. Benson screams and the self-appointed officer snarls: “Where is Mrs. (Y/L/N)?”  
“I don’t know, I swear. I don’t think she’s at home. Haven’t seen her in a few days. Please, sir!”  
Juice turns your head a bit, your right ear pressed at his shoulder, his hand over your left ear, your face pushed against his neck.  
“Do not scream,” he repeats in a huff, “I’m here.”  
“Does she have a second car?” The fake officer asks.  
“No, I don’t think so.”  
“A boyfriend? Maybe a biker?”  
“A biker? No, she’s single. Please, sir, put away your gun, it makes me nervous, please. I’m telling you all I know, but please ...”  
Two muffled shots and a stertorous breathing echoing through your apartment and you can barely bear down a sob.  
“Mathilda!” Jeff screams and another two shots are fired.  
“Oh, fuck,” Juice whispers, pressing you harder than ever against his chest.  
“Drag her in her fucking apartment, close the door and let’s get out of here,” the man in front of your apartment door commands.  
The door slams shut and fast steps depart on the corridor. Juice still holds you, frozen, appalled, deeply breathing.  
“I’m sorry,” he says after a while, “I’m so sorry.”  
He puts the gun aside, hugging you now with both arms, and you’re not longer able to hold your tears back. You sob like a child and he silently comforts you.  
“We have to call the police,” you snivel, “They must find them. And maybe ... Juice! We have to go next door. Maybe they’re still alive. We have to call the ambulance.“  
“No. They’re dead. I’m sure. No witnesses.“  
“But ...”  
“No. Just no. Believe me. They don’t do things by halves.“  
“Who are they?”  
Juice shakes his head and you free yourself from his hug.  
“Will they kill me?”  
“Maybe. I don’t know. First of all they want to see me dead.“  
“And because of the no-witnesses-policy I’m as dead as you. Right?”  
Juice gives a shrug: “They won’t find you.”  
“They won’t find me? Are you kidding me? They were right here, in front of my door. They’ve already found me. They know my name, Juice, know where I fucking live!“  
“Yeah.”  
“A ‘yeah‘ is all I get?” You push him away and he stumbles backwards.  
“I have to make some calls.”  
“Oh, I’m sure you have!”  
Juice fumbles his phone out of his jeans, finding the apartment keys first, parking them on the table before he walks to the window, checking the street. You stare at the keys – this is your chance. The only one you get, you guess. You grab them, heading to the door, fumbling the key in the keyhole and turning it around.  
You feel his hand on your arm, grabbing you, pulling you back from the door: “Oh, no, forget it.”  
“Let me go!”  
“No. It’s not safe. We’ll wait here until my brothers find a safe place to stay and a possibility to get us there.“  
“Please”, you sob, tears running down your face again.  
His nose is softly pressed on yours and he whispers: “No. Stay with me. I owe you a lot. At least protection.”  
“The kind of protection you and your brothers provides for Mr. and Mrs. Benson?”  
“I didn’t even know they’d existed. How could I protect them?”  
His mouth is so close at yours; you feel his breath on your lips. Your eyes are closed and you sniff a bit.  
“Yeah. Just breathe. Calm down. Let me do my calls and everything will be fine. I promise.“  
“Fine? They’re dead because of me. Because of you. Nothing is fine. Will be fine. Whatever.“  
“But you are alive and that’s the goddamn main thing.”  
He hugs you again, caressing your back with one hand. With the other he locks the door and puts the keys back in his jeans pocket.  
“In the bedroom, come on.”  
“What?”  
“You’ll wait in the bedroom and I’ll make my calls.”

Seconds later you hear the key turning – you’re cooped, again. This time in your bedroom. Your imagination is running wild. Mrs. Benson, eat away by insects and rats, your own body, cold and stiff, alongside Juice’s corpse in an ocean of blood. You cry again, you just can’t stop. Your pillow is nearly soaking wet as the key turns again and Juice steps in.  
“Tomorrow morning we’ll be outta here. For tonight: No lights, no TV. Your apartment must appear abandoned.”  
You nod. An evening in darkness and silence. Two dead bodies behind the wall. Could your life get even worse?


	8. Moving out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some melancholic cuddling happens.

“We stay here,” Juice decides and closes the bedroom door behind him.  
You give a shrug. You are a nobody, controlled, helpless, extradited.  
“As you wish,” you answer, sarcasm dripping out of your words.  
Juice is ignoring your verbal assault; he takes a seat on the edge of the bed and sighs. The silence in your bedroom feels like an all stifling blanket, it’s very uncomfortable and it makes you flutter. He’s sitting there like a goddamn statue, moves no muscle, staring at the door, the gun in his hands, his elbows on his knees.  
“Juice,” you whisper after nearly half an hour of silence, “Do you think they’re coming back?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“Could you please ... the gun?”  
“I’m a little bit afraid of you shooting me in the moment I put it away.”  
“I won’t. Promise.”  
He shakes his head, staring at the door, you staring on his back, waiting for ... you have no idea for what you are waiting.  
It’s nearly dark in your bedroom, all is quiet, and the apartment complex falls silent like every Sunday evening.  
“Juice,” you try again and he flinches as he hears your voice.  
You ask yourself where he has been in his mind. At a peaceful place? In the arms of a woman he once had loved? Or he actually loves? The picture gives you an idea.  
“What about putting the gun away and we do some cuddling? You can’t sit the whole night, you’ll fall asleep, sooner or later.”  
“Cuddling?” He asks and finally turns his head to have a look over his shoulder.  
“Yeah. As long as you hold me close and we’re cuddling I can’t reach for your gun, right?”  
He chuckles a bit and stands up, turning around, looking down at you. You’re curled up in your blanket, reaching with one hand for him.  
“Come on,” you whisper, “I need some comfort.”  
“Fuck,” Juice sighs, “Yeah.”  
He takes the gun to your chest of drawers, laying it on top, giving you a thoughtful look.  
“Cuddling? You sure? Really?” He asks, frowning.  
“Cuddling.“ You state while lifting the blanket for him.  
“If you play me for a sucker be sure I’ll win. Afterwards I’m going to tie you up to get some sleep.“  
“Juice ...,” you whisper, “No. Stop scaring me, please.”  
“No need to be scared, not yet. Be a good girl, don’t do stupid things and we carry on getting along great.”  
He crawls over the mattress and slips under the blanket, bedding your head on his chest, your left arm trapped between your bodies, the fingers of your right hand intertwined with his fingers.  
“Good?” He asks raspy and you nod.  
“Yes. Thank you.”  
He starts caressing your shoulder, wandering around with his fingertips. You see him staring at the ceiling, listening closely in the dark silence.  
“They loved each other so much. Last summer they had their diamond wedding,” you tell him and he breathes deeply.  
“I’m already too old to have a chance to sample my diamond marriage.”  
“If you’re getting killed tomorrow you won’t have a chance to sample even your first wedding anniversary.”  
“Uh, that’s too sad. I don’t wanna think about it.”  
“Last night on earth, Juice. What would you do?”  
He gives a shrug: “Dunno. Belongs where I would be and with whom.“  
“Cuddling with a friend would not be the worst thing you could do, I guess.”  
“I’m not cuddling with a friend, do I? According to you I’m cuddling with my hostage what really sounds weird.”  
Your thumb starts caressing his, and you see him smiling a bit.  
Deciding not to answer this you whisper: “I would fuck my brain out. Without regrets. The first and last time ever, just once. Fucking, pure fucking, not making love. Like a goddamn porn star.”  
Juice chuckles, his chest trembles and you have to laugh with him.  
“Why no love-making?” He asks after a few seconds of silence.  
“Because it’s way too melancholic, too sad, too clingy. You cling on the one you love, feel the seconds tickling away, totally aware of the finiteness of the night, of your life. You would have more crying than anything else because you know it’s the last time, you’ll lose each other in the morning. And as a person who never ever celebrated life it’s my last chance to do ... something crazy.”  
“Hm,” he hums approvingly. “As a person who celebrates life with each breath I take, I would be happy to find real, deep love in my last night. I’ve done enough pure fucking with random girls, drunken whores and fucked up sluts for at least five lives, I guess.”  
“Really?” You ask, lifting your head to have a look at him.  
He presses your head back on his chest and chuckles again.  
“Yeah. Sorry.”  
“No need to say sorry. It’s your life.“  
“But I regret. A lot of things.”  
“Kidnapping a random girl in an underground garage for example?”  
“Yeah. I didn’t see this coming. I thought they would be pissed for two or three days and go back to day-to-day-routine. I was wrong and I’m really, really sorry about it.”  
“Apology accepted,” you whisper and close your eyes.  
You’re nearly gone to sleep as he speaks again.  
“I still think about how it would feel to kiss you.”  
“It would feel too good, Juice. Way more than it should.”  
He falls silent again, and you think of all the missed opportunities that mark your life. Nobody will ever know what you had done with him. Or not done. You will not be able to blame yourself because your life will end very soon. The last night on earth. Giving and taking. Giving or taking. Give him what he needs, take, what he’s got to give. You lift yourself on your elbow, sliding a bit upwards, bringing your face near to Juice’s.  
“What?”, He asks, laying his hand on your neck.  
“I think about how it would feel kissing you,” you whisper and his grip tightens.  
You squeak, as he rolls you on your back, leaning over you.  
“Be a good girl, don’t do stupid things and we carry on getting along great,” he repeats his words and you chuckle.  
“Is kissing you good or bad?”  
“Dunno. We’re gonna figure it out.”  
“Don’t blame me if it turns out as a bad idea.”  
“No, I won’t. Promise. It’s been my idea since we ... cuddled on your couch.”  
His lips are hovering over yours as his phone rings.  
“Fuck,” he whispers, rolling around, grabbing the phone and taking a seat at the edge of the bed. “Tig?”  
You sit up and lean your back against the headboard, fold your arms and listen. Not that you expect to learn something new or illuminative, but you’re curious, afraid and still hopeful.  
“Yeah. We’re on the way.“  
He gives you a thoughtful look over his shoulder and states: „They’re waiting. We’ve gotta go.”  
“Can I pack some things?”  
“Yeah. But hurry up.”  
You jump out of the bed, open your wardrobe and pack some clothes in a backpack, heading to the bathroom for the stuff you need. Juice does the same with the things Lyla brought him the day before.  
“Ready?” He asks and you nod: „Just have to take my backpack and my purse and I’m ready.”  
“Then: Let’s go.“


	9. Moving in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're kidnapped again, second time in a row. Maybe at the third time there's a bonus? Whatever: New location, maybe more safety. We'll see. You're pissed. Comprehensible. I would feel the same.

“Too early,“ Juice says as you meet three men clothed in jeans and leather in the underground garage. “You said tomorrow morning.”  
“Complain later”, one of them grumbles, “Now hurry up.”  
“(Y/N), these guys are Tig, Chibs and Happy. They’re giving us a lift to a safe place where we can stay. Boys - (Y/N).”  
“Thank you,” you whisper, fighting against the feeling to cling on Juice’s arm for a little bit more safety.  
“C’mon,” Chibs says, waving with his hand to the SUV of Mrs. Huffman, “We’ll take the SUV.”  
“You’re gonna steal a car?” You ask, stopping and raising both hands, “You can’t do this. We can take my car.”  
“They know your car, hon. Your chance to get outta here is zero if we use your car. Did I make myself clear?” Chibs asks you and you nod.  
Oh my god. Mrs. Huffman will flip out.  
You follow Chibs and Tig, Juice takes your hand in his, smiling. You smile back, glad about the physical contact. Happy‘s walking right behind you.  
“Ready?” Happy asks and you see Juice nodding.  
“Go on.”  
You ask yourself what they’re up to, because no one is in sight, Mrs. Huffman’s SUV still a few meters away. You feel Happy’s left arm suddenly clinging around your chest, his right hand pressing a piece of cloth on your face. You smell something really strange and feel your knees weaken. Juice is lifting you on his arms, carrying you while Happy still presses the cloth over your mouth and nose.  
“It’s okay, I got you,” he says and the world’s gone black. 

You hear engine noise and the memories are back. They chloroformed you, these bastards. And you’ve trusted Juice. You’re so goddamn stupid, it’s unbelievable.  
Opening your eyes you see black, realizing they’ve put you a sack over your head – and you’re tied up, you feel cable ties on your wrists and ankles. On your right you feel a warm body, you sniff carefully but you’re only able to smell the sack.  
“She’s passed out for half an hour now. Are you sure you did it right, Hap?”  
“Sure. She’ll wake up not later than in ten minutes. I did this before, know what I’m doing, Juice.“  
Juice – he’s the one you’re leaned against – sighs: “I hope she’s okay.”  
“’Course she is. Let her sleep, the longer the better,” Happy answers and someone changes the radio station from a news channel to music.  
“Hit the gas, Tig, they’ll close at ten-thirty,” Chibs says and you feel the car speeding up.  
You move no muscle, you won’t let them know you’re awake, but they keep silent. After a few more minutes you decide to wake up officially.  
“Juice?” You whisper and feel him twitching.  
“Yeah, I’m here, right beside you.”  
“I’m tied up and blindfolded, why?” You whisper with a raspy voice, barely able to hold your tears back.  
“I’m sorry. It’s for your own safety. And we didn’t know how you would react after waking up. Some people freak out after they inhaled this shit.”  
“You’re scaring me. Please, stop it, Juice, please. I just wanna go home and ...”  
“I know, I know. Trust me, at least try it, please. Will you freak out if I loosen the ties?”  
“No, I swear.”  
He lifts his hip, searching for a knife in his pocket, you guess. A foreign hand on your shoulder helps you sit up, coming in an upright position.  
“I’ve got new one. And I’ll use them. So: Behave yourself,” Happy’s voice says on your left and you nod.  
“Don’t move, I’ll cut the ties, okay?“  
“Okay,” you whisper, and you feel Juice working on your ankles.  
You sigh as you feel the ties falling, holding your wrists up: “Please?”  
“Mhm-mhm”, Juice hums and the knife rasps over the tie on your wrists. “I’ll remove the sack when we’ve finally reached our destination. How do you feel?”  
“I’ve got headache. And I’m frightened, scared, horrified. I feel like I’m kidnapped. More than ever.”  
“Breathe, okay? No one will hurt you.”  
You feel his lips on your head; he’s whispering comforting words against the cloth of the sack, his arm laid around your shoulder.  
The rest of your journey largely passes by in silence. Now and then one of the men makes a spiteful remark to the announcer, the news or the radio traffic service. You fall asleep from time to time, the drug they gave you still working. It’s a moving nightmare you’re in. You have no idea how much time has passed by as the car finally slows down.  
“Lay your head on my thigh, come on,” Juice commands and presses you down. “Don’t do anything stupid. You move no muscle, you don’t make a sound. Okay?”  
“Yeah,” you whisper, fighting the tears back – only god knows what they will do if you start crying right now.  
You feel a blanket pulled over your body and, after some swearing and rustling, a big sports equipment bag is placed on you. Juice hand slips under the blanket, examining your face. He presses his hand once again tight over your mouth as he’s found it.  
“Ready,” he says and seconds later you hear Tig booking a vacation home.  
“Yeah, we’re late, sorry. We were caught up in a traffic jam.”  
A deep, tired voice answers something you don’t understand and Tig says: “Cash in advance. Yeah. Thank you. Good night.“  
You are on a big campground, you guess, a campground where you can book vacation homes too.  
Five minutes later the car stops again, the sports bag and the blanket are removed, Juice’s hand is gone. He pulls the sack off your head and you take a deep breath.  
“Come on in,” he invites you, smiling. “We’ll stay here a few days.”  
With shaky legs you get out of the car, grabbing the door not to fall. You feel very dizzy and weak.  
“Lemme help you,“ Happy says, lifting you up and carrying you to the door of the small house.  
You see a little lake shimmering through the trees; the moonlight reveals the faked license plate on Mrs. Huffmans SUV as you look over Happy’s shoulder. Juice carries your baggage and gives you a smile as Happy stops and waits for Tig to unlock the door.  
“Welcome home,” Juice grins and Happy turns around: “Wanna carry your bride over the threshold?”  
“Zip it, Hap. Don’t listen to him, (Y/N). He’s just jealous.”  
Happy growls deep in his chest and steps right behind after Tig into the little hallway. He goes straight in the living room, setting you down on the couch. You immediately start freezing, it’s cold and uncomfortable and you know that’s a spillover effect of the drug. Happy gives you a small smile and mumbles a Goodbye. You hear the men talking in the hallway while you take a look around – small but clean, way too small for five – officially four – grown-ups. Tourists rip off, definitive. But for you two it’s really shipshape.  
“I guess I owe you an apology,” Juice states as Chibs, Tig and Happy are gone.  
“Zip it. Just don’t do this again. We can talk. If you’d explained me ...“  
“We did it this way because ...”  
“No. No, just zip it. Never mind. I don’t wanna know. Just tell me when this nightmare is over.“  
“Okay.”  
“I’m thirsty and I’ve got headache. Is there something to drink? Or do we have to buy tomorrow?”  
“The boys bought us a few things.”  
“How generous,” you scoff, trying to stand up with your shitty-still-shaky-legs.  
“Please,” Juice says, “Don’t be pissed. I’m sorry, really, really sorry. Do you think you can forgive me? How can I make it good again?“  
“Dunno. Just ... just get me something to drink, please. And give me my backpack so I can get my stuff.”  
“(Y/N) ...,” he sighs, watching you with big puppy eyes.  
“Please, Juice. Just let me ... get my bearings. I’m still drugged and I could cry all the time.”  
“Maybe some cuddling could help?” He suggests with a level of puppy eyes you didn’t think it could be possible.  
You can’t help yourself: You chuckle.  
“Yeah. Maybe.”  
“Wanna try?”  
“I’m drugged, Juice.“  
“Yeah. I won’t take advantage. I just want you to feel better.“  
You nod slowly: “Thank you Juice.”  
“For what? For kidnapping, drugging and kidnapping again?”  
“For not shooting me in the head and throwing my corpse in the roadside ditch. I know how you and your friends cope with girls like me in normal cases.”  
“You’re wrong. Terribly wrong. I swear. I have never and I will never ... cope in this way with a random, not guilty woman.”  
“Thank you. Anyway.”  
He smiles and takes a bottle with water out of a grey backpack.  
“Here. Water will help to clean your system. I straighten our stuff and join you afterwards. Is this okay?”  
“Yeah. It is.”  
You watch him work, while you slowly nipping on your water bottle.  
“Are we safe now?” You ask as he grabs the last piece of baggage from the ground.  
The boys have packed a lot of stuff.  
“Yes. We are.”  
“Where’s your gun?” You ask, frowning.  
“Here,” he answers, pulling up his hoodie, showing you the holster.  
“So much for safety, huh?” You scoff and Juice’s laugh lines crinkle and he winks at you: “Yeah. So much for safety.”


	10. Kissing, condom, over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some kissing. Oh, boy, it's high time.

“What’s with the Benson’s?“ You ask as Juice comes into the bedroom after taking a shower and shaving his head.  
He left you alone, more than half an hour and you ask yourself why.  
“Tig gave an anonymous hint to the police. They will find them in ... yeah ... most likely this night. Maybe they’re already there.”  
“Won’t they search for me?”  
“Why should they? Will you be missed?”  
You gulp and shake your head. No one would miss you if you never come back.  
“No, no! Don’t give me this look. I know what you’re thinking. I would miss you.”  
“You? You’re kidding.“  
“No. You’re a really nice person and ...“  
“And nice is ...”  
“Sssssh! It’s me talking. Nice is the little sister of shit, I know.“  
Juice slips under his blanket, folding his arms behind his head, giving you an amused look. His laugh lines crinkle while he continues: “I like the cuddling. And the talking. You’re a good chef. And your writing is stunning.”  
“You’re an apple polisher, Juice.”  
He gives a shrug and smiles: “Give credit where credit is due.”  
“You can’t evaluate all this.”  
“Why not?” He asks, tapping gently on his chest, an invitation for you to come over and get some cuddling. “I eat. I hear. I read. And I’m way more into cuddling as it could be good for my reputation.”  
“So, uhm, thank you”, you answer, not knowing what to do.  
“Come over,” he whispers, “I still owe you compensation for all that kidnapping shit.”  
“And you think you’re gonna win forgiveness with some cuddling?“  
“No. I could offer other things too but you’re still kinda drugged and I want my guilt to lessen not to boost it into endlessness.”  
“Spoken like a poet, huh?” You giggle, coming slowly closer.  
You feel tired and exhausted, still a bit dizzy of the chloroform-or-whatever-it-was. Hesitantly you lay your head on his chest, hearing his heartbeat, calm and steady. He smells fantastic, he’s warm and strong.  
“Wanna go to sleep, babe?” He asks quietly and you nod. “Bringing the drug out of your system?”  
“Yeah. I’m not myself, I guess. It feels weird. Why did you leave me alone, Juice?“ You ask somehow drowsy.  
“No gun, no phone, you’re still dizzy. I knew you wouldn’t run out and wake the neighbors.”  
“You still don’t trust me?”  
“Every day a bit more. Step by step.”  
He turns around, showing you his back, laying your arm around his chest, intertwining your fingers with his.  
“Tonight you’re the big spoon, (Y/N). I guess it’s better this way.”  
Better than what way else? But you fall asleep before you find the answer; your nose pressed on his back, bathing in his scent. 

As you wake up you both have turned around and Juice’s the big spoon now. It fits perfect and you feel as good as ... you don’t know. Your head is empty, you’re sleepy and totally relaxed.  
“G’Morning, sleepy head”, Juice whispers and you lolled snugly in the feathers, stretching a bit, before you nod.  
You hear some tourists chatting in front of your window, the sound of two or three joggers, a few dogs barking, a baby cries. You close your eyes again, imagining Juice as the love of your life, thinking of many mornings to wake up this way.  
“Juan Carlos,” you whisper after nearly half an hour of listening to the world outside, dreaming, enjoying his embrace.  
He answers his name with a kiss on your head and you lift your hand to caress his cheek. He huffs a kiss on your palm and you sit up, smiling about Juice’s protest.  
“Breakfast?” You ask, stretching again.  
Juice pets over your back: „Nah.“  
“What else? Wanna stay in bed?”  
“Yep. I have a few days off, you too. Holidays. Yay!“  
“Okay. Do you mind if I go for the bathroom?“  
“’Course not. I’ve already checked the room: No bazooka stored beside the toilet paper.”  
“Thankfully. I don’t know how to rebuild one into a shower.”  
“Doesn’t work. You need two to build a proper shower,” Juice grins. “But a shower is already there. No need to set a new one.” 

Half an hour later you join Juice in the queen-sized bed, feeling quite normal again. A human, not a dizzy shape of yourself anymore. Juice gets up to use the bathroom, too and you start thinking of what next. Sex? Do you really want this?  
“Hey,” he says, as he comes in again. “Coffee?”  
You give him a broad, thankful smile and take the mug he hands you. Juice slips carefully under the blanket, leaning his back on the headboard.  
“So, what now?”  
“Dunno”, you answer, giving a shrug and taking a sip of the coffee.  
“I’ve got an idea, and I really like to hear your opinion.”  
“Go on,” you smile, making a summoning gesture.  
“Step one: We’ll finish our coffee in bed.”  
“Okay. Step two?“  
“We’ll talk about ... things.”  
“Things? Sounds really exciting,“ you tease and chuckle.  
“Step three,” Juice continues unflinching, “One more try to kiss you.”  
“Just one more try?”  
“I’m hopeful it works this time.”  
“It’s not that your first try hadn’t worked, right? We had been interrupted.” You take one more sip of coffee before you put the mug on the nightstand.  
He smiles and clears his throat.  
“Okay then. Talking?”  
“Yeah,” he mumbles, staring at your lips.  
“Choose a topic,” you request and Juice bites on his lower lip.  
“I know it’s going like a bull on the gate, but ... are you on the pill?”  
“No, I’m not. You’ll need a condom, big guy. If the part with the kissing works.”  
“Yeah. Of course. I have found a few in the backpack Chibs gave me.”  
“Chibs is clear-sighted, huh?”  
“Yeah. Your turn. A topic, babe.“  
He slides a few inches nearer, taking your hand in his.  
“Babe? How many do you have right now? And how many did you have?”  
“Right now? Only one. It’s you. I slept with a lot of women, can’t number them. I’m a bad guy, a wild one.“  
“A bad boy with a cuddling problem and a golden heart, right?”  
He nods and winks at you: “How many lovers did you have?”  
You breathe, before you answer. In and out. Slowly.  
“So, uhm, three. Yeah, that’s it. Only three.“  
“You’ve slept with only three men before today?”  
“I’m true blue. And I really like long relationships and continuity.”  
“How long was your longest relationship?”  
“Pff ... two years. Two years of ignorance and disinterest. He was way more interested in breakfast, lunch, dinner and a clean bathroom than in me. Since he moved out four years ago I’m alone.”  
“Your last ... uhm ... intercourse was four years ago?” Juice mouth gaps open, he’s totally confused, you can see it.  
“Nearly five.”  
“Oh, fuck. He was a jerk, right?“  
“Guess that’s correct. I dunno. I never had a ... a man worth the word in my bed.”  
“All weaklings?”  
“Yes. If you believe what you see on TV or read in books ...“  
“Oh, wait. You never had really good sex but you write incredibly hot sex scenes?” Juice furrows his brows, watching you closely.  
“All fantasy. Sex as I see it. As it should be. The vast bulk of the things I write I have never experienced by now.”  
“I see,” Juice whispers thoughtfully, going on his hands and knees, crawling over you. “Wanna live your fantasies with me?”  
“I would like to have a free trial. Maybe a kiss or two,” you answer, feeling your breath hitching.  
“Sure,” Juice answers and comes nearer, his lips on yours.  
The pleasurably sigh coming over your lips elicit a smile of Juice, you can feel it on your lips.  
“I like the sounds you’re making,” he mumbles and intensifies his efforts.  
It’s a sweet and soft kiss, one you wish you could hoard in tin cans like Christmas biscuits. Saved for later.  
You cover his cheeks with both hands, pulling him closer, showing him you want more. You want all he can give. But he’s obviously in no hurry, he takes his time.  
“Slow down. Don’t be so greedy. You get all you want as often as you want. Promise.”  
His whispered words at your lips make you shiver make you want more, even more than seconds before.  
“Where are the condoms?” You ask, caressing his shoulders.  
“Condoms? We’re still a thousand miles away from the point we need a condom, babe. This is not about fucking our brains out. This is about making love. It’s not our last night, honey.”  
“Oh, my god...”  
“In your books, beautiful, is there some kissing-condom-fucking-over? Written in less than half a page?”  
“No,” you answer, sucking his lower lip in your mouth, carefully.  
“See? We’ll get along wonderfully.”


	11. 699,5 miles to go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More kissing. More talking. And kissing. Did I mention kissing? Yeah, that's it. Enjoy the ride, honey.

I had no idea how much I missed being kissed, you think while Juice nibbles softly at your lower lip.  
He cups your face with both hands, exploring every single pore of the red of your lips, teasing with his tip of the tongue. You cling to his upper arms, feeling the muscles working at every little move he makes.  
“You’re very into kissing, don’t you?” You ask on his lips and he smiles, nodding.  
“Do you like it? Do you like being kissed like that, (Y/N)?”  
“I’m not sure,” you whisper, “May I have another free trial?”  
He chuckles and starts kissing you again, his lips soft and warm, alluring, exciting, and promising. Juice tastes like coffee and man and you wish you could preserve this taste, bottle it. You would be a millionaire next week. You never were a fan of kissing, it’s just a part of the whole sex thing, you guessed – and now you know you’re wrong. You love kissing, you love being kissed. It’s not only a more or less optional part of sex, it’s an art.  
Not one kiss is boring or annoying, every kiss Juice places on your mouth, your cheeks, your ears, forehead, all over your face is pure heat, pure prickle. Now the word ‘craving‘ gets a whole new meaning for you. A so much stronger, intensive, oh-my-fucking-god-I-need-him-to-touch-me-everywhere-want-to-feel-him-all-over-me meaning you hadn’t expected. Not for you, not in your boring, little uptight-old-maid-life.  
It’s too much, you want more, more, more. You push him on his back, take a seat on his belly and start to kiss him.  
With hunger, with might and main. His hands on your waist, holding you, no petting, just hold. You lift your head to get a lung full of air, asking yourself for a moment if Juice likes what you’re doing – and then you see his big, broad smile.  
“Someone’s into kissing too.”  
“Yeah, I didn’t know that but now... Yeah, I am.”  
Your lips meet again; you circle around his tip of the tongue with your tongue, caressing the bare skin on his head. You both breathe heavier and heavier from minute to minute. You’re devouring him more and more until he stops you, pressing you up with his strong arms.  
“Air,” he moans, “Honey, you’re a great kisser. But I need to breathe...”  
“Sorry, I ... yeah, sorry.”  
“It’s okay, babe. You’re hungry. It’s more than four years, right? You’ve got a backlog demand.”  
“Oh yes! And it’s huge.”  
“Very huge,” he whispers and pulling you back down to him.  
This time he focuses on your neck, spraying sweet kisses, soft bites on every square millimeter of your sensitive skin. You sigh and moan when he finds a very receptive spot.  
“I’m so fucking turned on and you didn’t even use your hands so far,” you whisper and his grip at your waist loosens, he scoops his hand between your thighs, cupping your vulva through the clothes, just for two seconds.  
“Juice ...,” you moan and he growls: “Feel it, yeah. Wet and hot.”  
You crave for another touch, for more, you need friction, you need to be filled. Your inner walls twitching in anticipation and you moan again, quietly.  
He sits up and you slide from his belly in his lap, feeling his hard cock pressing against the cloth of his boxers. Rolling you over he covers you with his body, he’s hard and muscular, soft skin wherever you touch him.  
“We’re still at level one, kissing,” he states, pulling your hand from his glorious ass.  
“Juice, please, please,” you beg between kisses. “Need you. Touch me, please.”  
He intertwines his fingers with yours, kissing your mouth again, sucking gently at your lower lip, biting, hotter, greedier than before. You feel his boner on your thigh and you’re rubbing you leg against it. He withdraws with a moan and chuckles: “Fair play, please. I don’t wanna cum in my boxers.”  
“Juice, please ...”  
“You’re in such a hurry, honey. Lemme take my time.”  
“That’s torture, Juan Carlos!”  
“Maybe, a bit. I’m a bad boy, remember?”  
“I don’t give a fuck who you are, but I want you to touch me, please, Juice. What do I have ...”  
He interrupts your ranting and begging with a kiss. As he breaks it, he sits up, leaning against the headboard.  
“Strip, babe. Lemme see you”, he whispers and pulls his shirt over his head.  
“You wanna see me naked?” You ask, suddenly embarrassed.  
“That’s Level 2. You wanted to go further, don’t you? You have to be naked for sex, it doesn’t work properly when you are fully clothed.”  
He gives you an inviting, lovely smile, plucking at the hem of your shirt.  
“Yeah, uhm ... sorry.”  
You’ve always been a bit shy and self-conscious about your body. You’ve never stripped in front of a man. Usually you just pulled your panty down. Your shirt lifted over your breasts, and everything except your head was properly hidden by the blanket. Christian had never wanted to see you naked, the few times you had sex.  
In my books, in my stories everyone is naked. You’re the only person in the world who has sex like this. Hidden under blankets, back in your clothes 30 seconds after he had finished.  
“Come on,” he encourages you, “Don’t be shy.”  
You pull the blanket over your lap and watch him for a few seconds, searching for amusement or sarcasm, mockery, anything negative. But there is just interest. And a glorious body. He’s such a handsome guy – no wonder that he had so many girls, so much sex, so much experience.  
You pull at the hem of your shirt but you can’t.  
“Wait, let me help you,” he whispers and seconds later you’re topless.  
The tip of his index finger is sliding over your left breast, over your heart that throbs like crazy.  
“Come here, honey. You wanted to be touched?”  
“Mhm. Can you kiss me again?”  
“Huh? Back to Level 1?”  
“Just for a few minutes. To get used to ... this.”  
“Okay.”  
His kisses are tenderly again, carefully, tentative. “No need to be shy, you’re gorgeous,” he whispers, his hand on your neck, holding you.  
You flinch as he touches one of your nipples. A short encounter, a flash of lightning through your whole body. Your lust, your excitement come back like a wave and you feel your inner walls twitching again.  
“Wait, please,” you pant and he withdraws from you, giving you room, “how many miles left?”  
He smiles, this big, bright smile, kissing you again and whispers: “About 700, I guess.”  
“Can we speed up, Juice?”  
“No. It’s our first ride together. We’re going to enjoy it.”  
You close your eyes and nod. Enjoy your ride, honey. Who knows when you’ll have the chance again?  
He strokes your back, kissing his way down to your breasts and you sigh as he sucks your nipple in his mouth. Nothing ever felt so good. You lay your hand on his head, caressing absent-mindedly his scalp, his shoulders, his cheeks, while he kisses your neck again, making his way back to your mouth.  
“How many miles?”  
“699 and a half, baby.”  
“I’m dying.”  
“No, not really. Just a few little deaths. Later, in my arms. Many times.”  
“You’re a bragger, Juan Carlos.”  
“We’ll see. What do I get if I’m not a bragger?”  
“Round 2?”  
“Deal.”  
He grins and goes on kissing you with his fantastic mouth.


	12. "There" is a lake in Norway.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut goes on. You learn a lot of things. For example that scary guys with guns are gods in bed.

It’s unclouded desire what he arouses in you, pure lust, a kind of flawless devotion. You don’t care about your body anymore, there’s only one thought left in your head: Juice. He cups your breasts and they don’t feel saggy and hanging anymore. You feel treasured for the first time in your adult life. The way he touches you like you were a wonder of the world, like a queen makes you nearly cry.  
Your fingertips caressing his nipples, very soft, very carefully and he arches his back, craving your touch. He wants to be touched by you and you’re barely able to believe this.  
“More,” he whispers, “I’m not made of sugar, babe. You won’t hurt me.”  
You tilt your head, sucking his nipple in your mouth, tasting him, biting softly, eliciting a hiss of him.  
“Yeah, like that,” he encourages you, twisting your nipple and makes you moan. “Do you want more? Want me to touch you harder?”  
“I want you first of all to touch me there”, you pant, pressing your crotch against his thigh.  
“There?” He asks quietly, „Where?“  
“Here”, You sigh, guiding his hand to your panties.  
“Later. Patience, baby. I’m not ready with your boobs. And to go on with level 3 you have to name it.”  
“Beg your pardon?”  
“There,” he grins, “is elsewhere in Norway or in Iceland. ‘Here‘ is maybe a lake in Alaska, you know?”  
“Oh ...”  
“Name where you want to be touched and I’ll touch you. Sex is a lot about communication. I’m no mind reader, honey. Tell me what you want and I’ll do it. You can write about it, you can say it. That’s the way it works.“  
“Okay,” you whisper, “I get the picture.”  
“Let me get a picture of your sex life in the past. How the fuck did you fuck?”  
He kisses your forehead, giving you some time to think about it while he pets your back.  
“Uhm, there’s not much to tell. And it’s awkward.”  
“Lemme guess, okay? Nearly fully clothed, under the blanket, two or three kisses, a few minutes unmotivated petting, just enough to get you at least wet enough for him and in the moment you were wet enough he was already in you, working for his own pleasure.”  
“Sort of, yeah,” you whisper, totally ashamed.  
“You never had an orgasm with him, right?”  
You can only nod.  
“He wasn’t very persevering, right? Three minutes and he was finished, you adjusted your pajamas and that was all for the next two months, right?”  
You nod again. He knows everything. Every fucking word is true.  
“That’s a shame for the whole manhood. I’m sorry. No wonder that you haven’t had a boyfriend since you kicked this idiot out.”  
“He left me,” you confess, pressing yourself searching for comfort and hold against his warm chest. “He left me because I was boring and strenuous, sophisticated and to less sexy.”  
“What an asshole,” Juice mumbles.  
He grabs your hand and leads you to his crotch, rubbing your palm against his length.  
“You are so sexy. Can you feel how sexy you are? You did this. You still do this.”  
You give him a smile and he removes your hand, placing it on his chest again, holding it there.  
“All you need is a man who encourages you a bit, who demands a bit. One who’s a little bit patient and steady, an easy, giving type of a guy.”  
“I guess I found one.”  
“Yes, that’s right.”  
“Juice, I can’t imagine you doing pure fucking with random girls. Do you really do this?”  
“Yep. I like sex in every shade. If you like we can also have a lesson in 100 % pure fucking. But not today. Today is love-making-day.”  
“Surely you think I’m the biggest dork you’ve ever met, but ...”  
“No, I don’t think you’re a dork. You used to be a jinx, but now you’ve met me, lucky girl.”  
You can’t help, you have to laugh and Juice’s laughing with you.  
“Crazy, isn’t it?” He grins, cupping your breast again, restarting his journey over your body. 

An eternity later you’re panting, no longer able to hold still: “Juice, please, I need your fingers at my pussy. In my pussy. Please, plea ... oh, god yes!“  
You flinch as he shoves his hand in your panties, removing them for better access. He’s petting your folds, he starts slow and gently just as he has started everything until now. You need more friction, more contact.  
“Juice, please ...”  
“Please what, baby?”  
“Rub my clit, please.”  
He obeys, still gently and slow and you whimper, arching your back, pressing your pelvis against his hand. The hot coil in your belly builds up slowly, slowly but inexorable.  
“You close?” He whispers at your mouth, biting in your lower lip.  
“Yes, yes, please ...”  
“Want more?”  
You nod, moaning, a whimpering mess. You’re clasping on his arm with one hand, the other one searching for a hold in the sheets.  
You close your eyes, it’s too much, you’ve got not enough energy to hold your lids open. Your breathe comes intermittent, high pitched and you can’t bear a scream down as the waves of pleasure, lust and excitement rolling over you. Juice closes your mouth with a kiss, cushioning your cry with a kiss. Your body trembles but he doesn’t stop: “Once more,” he whispers, “Only fifty miles to go. Show me how beautiful you are when I send you over the edge.”  
You feel tears on your cheek kissed away by his smiling mouth, you loosen the hard grip on his arm, only to tighten again as you feel the knot in your belly again.  
“Juice ..., Juice ... oh, my god, Juice ...”  
“Look at me. Try it. Okay? Let me see your eyes when you cum.“  
It’s a hard fight but you manage to open your eyes, locking your gaze with his.  
The pressure of his skilled fingers on your clit increases, your hips twitching.  
“You don’t need contorted maneuvers to give you an orgasm, see? Just a little patience. And a man who’s interested in making you cum. That’s all. It’s not you who needs to be ashamed. You did nothing wrong. Never.”  
His voice is just a huff and it kicks you more than anything before.  
“Juice ...,” you moan, “I can’t ...”  
“Oh, you do. Let it go, honey. Look at me and let go. You close, right?”  
“Yes, yes, yes ... oh, my god!” Your voice breaks, Juice pinches your nipple and you lose it.  
It hits you even harder than the first one just minutes before and Juice has to close your mouth with a kiss again. The moment you come down from your high you feel ashamed again, you grab the blanket, covering your nakedness.  
“No, no, don’t you dare falling back in old samples,” he grins, wrestling the blanket from you and throwing it out of the bed. “We’ve got a few more miles to go, honey. We’re not ready.”  
His index finger paint circles on your tummy and you place a kiss on his chest. He holds you for a few minutes, only cuddling, comforting, while you’re caressing his chest and his belly.  
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.  
“It’s okay. You’ve got still a few things to experience. For example that nakedness is nothing bad.“  
“Okay. I’ll do my very best.”  
“I know, baby. I’ll go for a condom and I want you to be still naked and uncovered when I’m back in a few seconds. Okay?”  
“Okay.”  
“Close your eyes. Relax.“  
You nod but you don’t close your eyes. You watch him standing up, this oh-so-erotic back, his abs, his impressive bulge in his boxers. He’s so hard it must hurt as hell, you think. He smiles and leaves the room with you staring at the door – and closing your eyes as he’s out of sight. You flinch as the mattress sinks in, you didn’t hear him coming back. He gets rid of his boxers and you allow yourself a short look. Wow. Wow, he’s a damn god. Everywhere.  
“Like what you see?“ Juice teases and you nod.  
“Uhm ...“, you clear your throat and blush, „Uhm ... how do you want me?”  
He’s looking up from the condom wrapping he’s fighting with, watching you thoughtfully.  
“I want you to be relaxed, I want you to have fun, to enjoy it and I want you to tell me if I’m doing wrong for you. Nothing else.”  
He moans in anticipation as he rolls the condom over his cock.  
“Ready?” He asks, crawling over you.  
You spread your legs and nod: „Ready. Please, fuck me, Juan Carlos.”  
He grins, cupping your face with his hands and kisses you.  
“No fucking. It’s love-making-day, remember?“  
“Please, make love to me, Juan Carlos.”  
“Uh, I like the way you say my name in bed,” he whispers and you feel his cock gliding through your folds. “Relax, (Y/N). Look at me and relax. Give me a smile. Yeah, that’s it, honey.“


	13. Fancy lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh, great sex. But afterwards it feels bitter.

Your grip on his arms tightens and you catch your breath, his gaze locked with yours. He’s stretching your pussy in such an exquisite way, it’s a kind of pressure you never had experienced. In the second he’s balls deep in you, you know that you’ll miss in the moment he’ll leave you. He stills, smiling.  
“Breathe,” he whispers, “You good?”  
You nod and know this was every second worth the wait.  
“You’re so damn tight, baby, it’s so fucking good to be in you.”  
You smile and tense the muscles of your pelvic floor, making him hiss.  
“Do it again, please.”  
His head fall on his chest, his eyes closed as you obey and a deep growl’s coming out of his chest. His hips moves, withdrawing, slowly, you feel every millimeter – until he’s leaving you completely.  
“No!” You pant, “Please, Juice!”  
“You liked it?”  
“Yes, very much.“  
He slides back into you, easily, and you lift your hips to meet him halfway.  
“Again, such a hurry, honey,” he smiles, teasing you with slow, slight thrusts. “Are you close?”  
You shake your head. No. You aren’t. You’ve had two overwhelming orgasms, you’re filled.  
“That’s my impression too. You’re not even a bit close. So, why you are in such a hurry again?“  
“I don’t know.”  
“You’ve to learn to enjoy every second.”  
He fucks you slowly, changing the angle three or four times until you flinch as he thrusts into you, until you can’t hold a moan back, a loud moan. All is prickling, all is heat and you crave for more friction.  
“Here we go,” Juice whispers, “Now I’m doing it right.”  
You hadn’t had the feeling he did wrong until now but ... god, you feel another orgasm building in your belly, lust growing with every now harder thrust. He plunges himself in you, his hips snapping, his eyes watching your face closely.  
“Now you’re close, right, honey?” He asks, breathing heavy.  
“Yes, yes, oh, god ... Juan Carlos, please ... don’t stop!“  
You feel his hand on your vulva, he finds your clit and two or three hard thrusts later you scream your third orgasm in this shabby bedroom.  
He speeds up again, grits his teeth, moans as your pulsing muscles massaging his cock, making your even tighter.  
“(Y/N),” Juice grabs your leg, lifting it over his hips, more room for him, allowing him to come deeper into you, “God, yes, fuck!”  
His eyes fall shut in the moment it hits him, he’s shuddering, all hard and manly, still like a statue, a panting god. His arms buckle and he falls down on you, covering your body with his. You both breathe heavy and fast, clinging at each other. Juice smiles at your skin, burying his nose in your hair. He sighs and whispers: “I really would love to stay but ... that’s the disadvantage of condoms. Sorry.”  
He withdraws and you watch him removing the condom. He fastens it with a knot and stands up.  
“Back in five seconds. Don’t go, okay?”  
Naked as god made him he leaves the bedroom, going into the bathroom.  
You sit up as he crawls into the bed again, folding your legs into the tailor seat.  
“And now?” You ask frowning.  
“Cuddling, kissing, round 2. Cause I’m not a bragger. But maybe we’ll eat breakfast first. I’m hungry.”  
He slips under the blanket, lifting it up for you.  
“Come on. Cuddle time.”  
“Uhm, don’t you want me to prepare breakfast?”  
“No. I want you to lay your head on my chest. Breakfast can wait.”  
“Thank you, Juice.”  
“For what? Sleeping with you? Not being an asshole, bossing you in the kitchen?”  
“Both.”  
He chuckles and pulls you closer. His fingertips wandering over your back, gently, nuzzling.  
“My club ... is in deep trouble. It’s all fucked up in the last weeks and we ... we fight on many fronts. I like the idea of having someone uninvolved who can give me the gift of oblivion. You. Having a little time-out with you is ... way more than I expected. I like the imagination of being somehow loved and cherished.”  
“Do you want to say you want this on a regular basis?” You index finger is painting circles on his belly, clockwise around his navel.  
He nods slowly: “The sex was stunning and I didn’t lie: I feel comfortable and relaxed when I’m with you.”  
“So you think you can come and go – provided that we get being alive outta this bullshit we’re in –, having a weekend with me and that’s it?”  
“Yeah, kind of,” he confesses, smiling.  
“Isn’t this kind of creepy? Because you kidnapped me twice?”  
“Can we please forget this kidnapping shit? Please? Start again?”  
“Start again? How should this work?“  
“Dunno. Just make a cut and ... yeah ... go on.”  
You sigh: “I’ll think about it. I don’t know if my aim in life is to be the fancy lady of a biker boy on the run. The fancy lady of a guy I know nothing about.”  
“Sometimes it’s better to know nothing. Trust me. Plus: I don’t want a fancy lady. I wanna have a friend. A place where I can ... uhm ... lick my wounds, a safe and warm place to stay.”  
“My place isn’t safe anymore,” you state and he intertwines his fingers with yours.  
“We’ll find a new one. We’ll help you. You’re family, you saved me.“  
“Uh, zip it. I’m hungry. Time for breakfast.“  
You feel used and dirty, desperate and alone. You can’t go back to your place, you need a new apartment and maybe you are forced to get a new job. A whole new life. All because of this man. His apology? Sex. Good sex, okay. But that’s not enough. 

The awkward feeling is back, you’re totally ashamed, embarrassed, you’re not able to look in the mirror without feeling disgusted. You’re a whore and you have to live with this mistake forever. And because you are a whore he wants you to be his fancy lady, fuck buddy, however he may calls it.  
“You don’t want a round 2 anymore, right?” He asks after finishing breakfast.  
“Absolutely right.”  
“Okay. I said something really stupid, right? Want me to apologize?”  
“No. I want you to get out of my life. I want my old life back. Is this so hard to understand?”  
“No, it isn’t.”  
“So, do you mind if I call a taxi and go back in my old life?”  
“I do mind, yes.”  
“So, we’re back at the kidnapping thing?” You yell and he raises his hands, a defending and calming gesture.  
“Hey, don’t. Don’t shout at me. Okay? We don’t want attract attention.”  
“I don’t give a damn, Juice! Am I allowed to go wherever I want or not?”  
He takes a deep breath and rubs over his scalp: “No. You’re not.”  
You turn around, hiding your tears, sobbing uncontrollably as his cell phone rings.  
“Hey,” he says, “Please tell me you’ve got good news.“


	14. Restart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good things come to an end. Just as nightmares do too. And sometimes good things can be started again.

You’re staring out of the kitchen window, seeing the shore of the lake, all the happy families in their goddamn holidays, couples going for a walk with their stupid dog, all relaxed, in love, pleased, living your little dream. You don’t hear Juice talking on the phone, you’re not interested in. You’re still held hostage in a holiday dream, you made the biggest mistake in your life, and if this nightmare have a good ending, you can go back to your lonely, shitty life. Alone, on your own. No dog, no boyfriend, no holidays, no sex, no cuddling. Just your work, your one-person-dinners, your notebook to write yourself a life. It’s depressing but after all kind of alluring. Back in your shell, in your safety.  
“It’s over.”  
“Pardon?” You ask, flinching.  
“Jax had a meeting with ... them and yeah, it’s over. Problem solved. All’s good. They know I held you hostage, you’re no supporter or friend of mine. You don’t need a new apartment, unless you want one.”  
“Of course I want one! I can't live there without thinking of Mr. and Mrs. Benson every damn hour of the day. So, I’m allowed to go now? Can I borrow your phone to call a taxi?“  
“(Y/N), please, don’t ... I dunno what I said that hurt you so deeply, but I’m really, really sorry about it. It wasn’t my intention to hurt you, never.”  
“Can I borrow your phone or not?”  
“No need to call a taxi. Chibs is on his way to give us a lift. He’ll be here in an hour or so.”  
“Uh, great. Where’s the chloroform and the bag for my head?“  
He raises his hands again, making a step back.  
“Sorry,” he mumbles, “Really sorry.”

 

It’s already late afternoon as Chibs parks the van in front of the apartment complex you live in.  
“Give us a few minutes, okay, Chibs?” Juice asks and gets out of the car, grabs your bag and opens the door for you.  
“Lemme help you.”  
“My keys, Juice,” you say, making a prompting gesture.  
“Yeah,” he answers, searching in his jeans pocket for the key to your apartment. “I come along with you. No discussion.”  
You sigh, saying a good bye to Chibs and turn around to go in, Juice at your feet.  
“Will you tell me what I did wrong?” He asks quietly as the door of the elevator closes.  
You don’t answer. You just want to be alone, knowing it’s over. You don’t know what you had expected but being a fancy lady is not your aim of life. In the moment he meets the love of his fucking life you will be forgotten, you can rot in your shitty apartment, waiting for his call that will never come. You walk out of the elevator, stopping as you see the barrier tape at the door of the Benson’s. The tears are coming back and you know you have to move, you can’t live here anymore. You have to move to the other end of this godforsaken town. Or to Norway or Iceland. There. Here. Touch me, kiss me, love me, please.  
“Have a nice life, Juice.” You say, completely without sarcasm.  
“Yeah. Thank you for everything. I hope you’ll be fine.”  
You laugh dryly and shake your head. Fine? Nothing will be fine. Never ever. You open your door and slam it shut, bursting in tears the moment you are alone. Your apartment looks as never had anything happen. And this fact causes even more tears. 

 

Four months later you’ve changed a lot in your life. New apartment, you go out dancing, at least trying to find a man out there. You’re still not into one night stands so you go home alone, every weekend. And every once in a while you wish Juice was sitting on your couch when you come home. And nearly every Sunday morning you hear his voice in your head: “It’s Sunday, go back to sleep.”  
Every Sunday morning you wish you could share the newspaper with him. Sometimes you can’t see the soft-boiled egg on your plate without tears burning in your eyes. You’ve never before cried so much since your kidnapping adventure is over. Every damn bike on the street reminds you, in every biker you see him. Chibs. Happy. Tig. You don’t even know his last name, don’t know where he lives. Juan Carlos, Puerto Rican from Queens, biker. That’s all. 

It’s Friday evening and you’re sitting in a bar, waiting for some of your colleagues. You order a beer, nipping absent-mindedly on the bottle. You’re a little bit too early, but you felt lonely and bored in your apartment so you drove here before it was time. The bar is already crowded but you see no one who draws your interest.  
“Hey,” a familiar voice behind you says and you turn around, catching your breath.  
“Hi,” you whisper, totally flustered.  
“I‘m Juan Carlos. You alone tonight?“  
“Uhm, yes, I am.“ You can’t believe who’s standing in front of you, smiling this familiar smile, warm and gladly.  
“May I pay you a drink?” He asks, sitting down on the bar stool on your side.  
He’s wearing a black shirt, a jeans, boots – just as you know him. You give him a smile and he smiles back, the tattoos on his scalp gleaming in the spotlight.  
“Oh, you may, thank you. My name's (Y/N), by the way.”  
“Another beer, (Y/N)?”  
“Yeah, sounds good.” You clear your throat, watching him chatting with the barkeeper and paying two bottles of beer, relaxed, casual, absolutely normal.  
“So, where do you come from, Juan Carlos?” You ask, as he puts his wallet back in his jeans and hands you a bottle of beer.  
“Born in Queens, son of Puerto Ricans. I’m a biker and I really like Dancing with the stars, lasagna with carrots and zucchini and soft boiled eggs for breakfast. I’m working at a garage and recently I discovered my fondness for romance novels.”  
You blush and whisper a “thank you, Juice”.  
He takes your hand, intertwining your fingers with his and whispers: “I really missed you. Please, give me a chance. Please, (Y/N).”  
“Will you stay?” You ask in a hushed tone.  
“If you want me to stay, I will.”  
“I missed you so much, Juice, so fucking much.”  
“Not as much as I missed you, honey. I’m here.”  
He comes nearer and the feeling of his lips on yours makes the world cracks into its hinges again.  
“’Here‘ is a lake in Alaska, you know?”  
He chuckles and pulls you in his arms: “Thank you for reminding me.”  
“The lake in Alaska?”  
“The importance of love.”  
You smile and drink his scent, feeling finally home.


End file.
